There had been negotiations entered into with the Southland sheep-farmer, whose farm comprised the glen of Oranmore, and he readily accepted in lieu of it, for the justice sake, and to oblige the Laird, an equal extent of land elsewhere. In wild eagerness, the Macalpines threw themselves into their glen, and wrought so furiously at their dismantled houses, that in a very short time after the sale the longed-for homes stood complete again, ready for the joyful flitting.
And then, upon a balmy day of early April the clansfolk returned, in solemn procession, to their home. The bustle of removal was over—the lofty tone of those mountain people made a grave ceremonial of their return. In the glen, beneath the soft, blue sky, and genial spring sunshine, they gathered together to thank God; and, with the blue heights rising over them, and the fair low-country swelling soft and green at their feet, and the peaceful cottar houses round, with fire upon their hearths, and lowly, protecting roofs once more, they lifted up their voices in psalms:
“Lord, Thou hast been our dwelling place
In generations all,
Before Thou ever hadst brought forth
The mountains great and small.
Ere ever Thou hadst formed the earth,
Or all the world abroad,
Even Thou from everlasting art
To everlasting God.”
And then, their minister standing by the while, Duncan Macalpine the elder, of Oranmore, rendered thanks to God.
Archibald Sutherland denied himself this gladness. It invigorated him in the dingy manager’s room of the Glasgow counting-house to hear of it, but he felt he had no claim to the triumph. Mr. Ferguson was there, radiant with honest glee, and Mr. Lumsden from Portoran, his face covered with a dark glow of simple delight and sympathy. And there was little Lilie, and Mary Ferguson, solemnly invited to take tea with Flora and Angus, on their first entry into their new house, and Anne and Marjory, with Lawrie for their gallant, were in charge of the children and a straggling back-ground of well-wishers from Merkland and the Tower, filled up the rear.
The months wore peacefully on. Esther Fleming’s son had returned to her, and only did not become captain of a schooner, which called Norman owner now, because he had enough, and preferred comfortably dwelling at home, greatly honored by his foster-brother, and very proud of the relationship, while, withal, his mother’s little housekeeper-niece did so seriously incline to hear his stories of sea perils and victories, that the rustic neighbors already in prophetic anticipation, had some half dozen times proclaimed the banns of William Fleming.
Norman Rutherford and his family were settled peacefully in the now bright and cheerful house of Redheugh. Anne was with them. Little Alice, the blythest of young wives, kept Merkland bright and busy. There was word in Edinburgh of some rich young Indian lady, who had thrown her handkerchief on James.
And before the three months were fully expired, Anne Ross accepted Marjory Falconer’s invitation, and was present at a wedding-party in Falcon’s Craig. A double wedding—at which Mr. Lumsden, of Portoran, placed in the stout hand of Sophy Featherstonehaugh the reins of the ruder animal Ralph Falconer, of Falcon’s Craig, and immediately thereafter submitted in his turn to the same important ceremony, performed in his case by the brother Robert, of Gowdenleas, in the midst of an immense assemblage of kindred, Andrew of Kilfleurs standing by.
And prosperous were these weddings. Good-humored, kindly, and of tolerable capacity, the bold Sophy had improved under her sister-in-law’s powerful tutorage. She had a firm hand. The boisterous Ralph felt the reins light upon him, yet was kept in bounds, and by-and-by Sophy left the management of wild horses entirely in his hands. She got other important things to manage—obstreperous atoms of humanity, wilder than their quadruped brethren, and scarce less strong.
And with her old chimeras scattered to the winds, in lofty lowliness, and chastened strength, Marjory Falconer entered her Manse, the minister’s stout-hearted and pure-minded wife. One hears no more of the rights of women now—bubbles of such a sort do not float in the rare atmosphere of this household—there is nothing in them congenial with the sunshine of its blythe order and freedom.